I look around the space I had Ava in not twenty minutes ago. But it feels like centuries. The rush has disappeared completely. I need it back.

I go to the mirror and splash my face with cold water, hoping it’ll cool me down in many ways. Then I head back downstairs, praying Van Der Haus has fucked off so I can get Ava and leave. The place is still bustling, people chatting, drinking, eating canapes, laughing. But no Ava.

“Looking for someone?” Sarah asks, joining me as I continue to scan the space.

“Don’t be a dick, Sarah. Have you seen her?” I pull my phone out, ready to dial Ava and track her down.

“She left.”

I swing my worried eyes onto Sarah. “What?” She left without even saying goodbye? And more to the point, she left without me?

“Five minutes ago.” She points her champagne flute toward the doors, and I’m off like a rocket, pushing my way through the crowds, wishing, once again, that they’d all fuck off out of my penthouse.

I nearly take an old chap off his feet. “Sorry,” I say, making sure he’s steady.

“You in a rush?” he asks, holding out his hand. “Patrick Peterson.”

Ah, Ava’s boss? “Nice to meet you.” I leave his hand hanging and hurry away, smacking the button for the elevator repeatedly when I get there, like it might arrive faster under pressure. “Come on, come on,” I chant. I rush in as soon as the doors are open wide enough and hit the button for the ground floor. Why did she leave? I start pacing the small space feeling a sweat coming on and reach up to my chest and apply a bit of pressure, trying to force my heart into slowing down. Don’t tell me what I just shared with Ava will be it. Don’t tell me I won’t ever experience lightness like that again.

The doors open, and I dart out, nearly taking the concierge off his feet too. “Sorry,” I call back, landing outside the foyer, my eyes scanning. I see her car, but I don’t relax. She was drinking. She wouldn’t have driven anywhere. Good girl. But is she walking? Alone?

I scrub my hands down my face, slumping back against her car. This isn’t how I expected the rest of my evening to pan out. I pull up her name in my phone, but as my thumb hovers over the dial icon, I hear something.

Ava?

I frown, glancing around.

And I spot her, sitting on a bench on the docks. She’s on her phone. I look at mine. I don’t know why; she won’t be calling me, and that fucking hurts. I wander over quietly, coming to a stop a few paces behind her.

“Oh, Kate,” she says on a sigh, her head dropped back. I can sense her despondency from here. Can feel her regret. “I’ve made a monumental fuck-up,” she whispers, and I flinch. How can she say that was a mistake? It was nothing short of perfection. “I’ll be home soon.”